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My son, thou wilt dream the world is fair,
  And thy spirit will sigh to roam,
And thou must go; but never, when there,
  Forget the light of Home!

Though pleasures may smile with a ray more bright,
  It dazzles to lead astray;
Like the meteor's flash, 'twill deepen the night
  When treading thy lonely way:—

But the heart of home has a constant flame,
  And purse as vestal fire—
'Twill burn, 'twill burn for ever the same,
  For nature feeds the pyre.

The sea of ambition is tempest-tossed,
  And thy hopes may vanish like foam—
When sails are shivered and compass lost,
  Then look to the light of Home!

And there, like a star through midnight cloud,
  Thou'lt see the beacon bright;
For never, till shining on thy shroud,
  Can be quenched its holy light.

The sun of fame may gild the name,
  But the heart ne'er felt its ray;
And fasion's smiles, that rich ones claim,
  Are beams of a wintry day:

How cold and dim those beams would be,
  Should Life's poor wanderer come!—
My son, when the world is dark to thee,
  Then turn to the light of Home.